Revolver - Seven Isn't Lucky
by MatthewAnderson707
Summary: Following World War III, Matthew Anderson and John Grant have become paranormal investigators. Their first case is anything but easy and involves the all too well known and legendary Ghost Bus of Highway 93. The story is based off the tale here: /article/ghost-bus-highway-93 /2003/10/ghost-bus
1. Prologue

_June 30th, 1991_

Baking in the hot sun, the Arizona desert was just as dry as could be. Travelling across the vast expanse of the mysterious and almost hell-ridden landscape, a lone coyote was looking for prey to satisfy its need for food. So far, as is the case with most hunts, he wasn't finding much. All that was accompanying him was the heated sand, large mountains and the all too familiar saguaro cactus. Though soon, the little guy came across a dark gray strip of rock extending for miles. What was this thing? He had never seen anything like it before. Stranger still, there were yellow lines and white lines decorating it. Were they one of the ancient structures left behind by the original humans that lived there? Right when the coyote was about to set his paw on the strange object, a big blue machine rushed past making popping sounds from its engine leaving clouds of smoke behind. The coyote jumped back, but rather than continue on his hunt, he felt an evil air coming from the machine that had just passed him. The pungent smell it left behind was easily traceable by scent. Because he was a coyote, it was his job to protect the desert from evil spirits. The little canine ran after the strange machine that had just passed him.

The blue machine was a 1930's Chevrolet bus owned by the Southwestern Highway Transportation Company of Glendale, Arizona. At its wheel was 40 year old Joe Kramer, a veteran road warrior. Today, he was operating the Triple 7 service from Sun City to Laughlin, Nevada. Next to him was a cup of his usual black coffee, courtesy of Winchell's Donut House. The old engine of the bus growled with age. Not only was it nearing the old age of sixty, but the bus was the oldest in the company fleet and constantly had maintenance issues. Maintenance workers gave it the moniker "Bus From Hell". This was all too prevalent today, considering just outside of Wickenburg, Bus 777's air conditioning had given up. To make matters worse, blue smoke belched from the exhaust pipe. It was burning oil, meaning the engine could very well explode along the at least 200 to 300 miles remaining to Laughlin. "HURRY IT UP WILL YOU?! THE SOONER WE'RE GAMBLING THE BETTER!" An old lady shouted at the top of her lungs followed by many other senior-aged rude passengers. _Ugh... Someone just kill me now or destroy this God damned machine..._ Joe thought to himself. He hated his job, but this was the only one he could get. At least he could make up for the pain with a little gambling in Nevada.

They were just south of Wikieup and the bus was baking hot from the sun. Joe felt like he'd puke. "Look, can I just stop the bus for a second in town or turn the bus back, I'm baking in here-" "NO!" Almost all the seniors cried out in protest to his simple request. A grumpy 72 year old man stood up, obviously weighing less than 100 pounds, but had an energy of a heavy weight boxer. "Like hell we'd let you skip out on us! We'll push this damned bus all the way to Laughlin if we have to, Sonny! Those slot machines ain't waitin' any longer. Just do your job!" Joe grumbled to himself. "Fine! Just sit the hell down will you?!" Normally, he had better social faking skills than this, but the way these passengers and his bus were tormenting him today cancelled that out. His last resort option of getting a better bus sent up from Phoenix was hopeless too. Not surprisingly, the bus slowed by a whole 10 miles an hour soon as they passed Wikieup. That, coupled with the cracked and buckling old narrow pavement of the two lane US 93 assured that this bus ride would be anything but comfortable.

Joe's torment got worse when they reached I-40. Plenty of angry motorists heading to California honked at his slow gaudy blue wheeled coffin for the 50 or so miles to Kingman. One pulled next to him and the driver rolled down the window of his 1989 Toyota Corolla, giving Joe the bird. "Can you go any fucking slower Grandpa?! Get off the road!" That got a chorus of yelling going from the elderly passengers in the bus all rolling down the windows and yelling at the other driver. Being only two lanes long and both lanes being taken up by the slow bus and rubber necking driver, traffic was beginning to pile up behind the two vehicles making even more people angry. Joe yelled in frustration and floored it, straining the bus' engine to pass the jerk next to him. "I'm just fucking glad the rest of the route to Laughlin isn't a freeway..." Joe grumbled to himself obviously reaching the strains of his temper.

In Kingman, Joe pulled off onto old Route 66 and took it through town, not wanting to risk any more trouble from Interstate travellers. "Get us back on the freeway you hooligan!" Once again, the elderly passengers were pushing Joe's temper to its limits. "Stop yelling! STOP!" But alas, they all continued on has he went west on Beale Street, rejoining US 93. They even kept up as he turned off onto State Highway 68. They were more than halfway to Laughlin, running on a rusty old engine with no oil and the bus was hotter than hell itself. Finally at Union Pass, the bus couldn't handle any more stress and reached its climax towards the top of the hill. The radiator cap blew off as hot steam hissed out. The bus was slowing down even more. "Come on, come on! You can do it, baby. You can do it!" The coaxing did nothing as the machine ground to a halt. "What's the hold up?! Get going!" Joe slammed his hand down and pulled the emergency brake. "I can't go any further! This is it!"

The elderly man from earlier got up and marched to the driver's seat, grabbing hold of Joe's shirt. "Listen here, you'd better get us going again! I've put everything but my false teeth into this trip and I ain't gonna wait any longer." Joe, now at the end of his sanity, saw the man and other passengers as demons, when in reality they weren't. As they all began to crowd around Joe, he lost it. "FINE!" He pulled the emergency brake and got out shoving the bus, allowing gravity to get it going again, if only for a little while. He got quickly back in before the bus had gone without him and steered it around Union Pass. Not using the brake, the bus picked up 40 miles an hour in speed. It soon ran off the road and plowed through several cacti as it finally came to a stop 50 feet from the highway. "You twit! Get us back on that road!" This was it. Joe couldn't take it any longer. "NO!" He got out of the bus and thew his cap on the ground stamping on it several times. As he was losing his temper, a dirty idea came into his head. A very wicked one too. "Alright, sorry I lost my temper everyone... I'll get us to a service road a few miles ahead of here, just let me patch up the engine." He took out a repair kit within the bus and began working on the engine. Thankfully, the passengers weren't rude enough to deny a donation of water for the vessel's radiator. After doing a bit of repair work, Joe got back inside and turned the key. The still complaining passengers didn't bother him anymore. Nor would they bother him ever again...

Coaxing the engine at least 20 times, he finally got it started again and began driving the bus gently through the Arizona sand across bleak desert for the next several hours, with nothing in sight at all. "Where the hell are we?! What are you doing?!" The passengers continued complaining and even a pair of false teeth was thrown at the dashboard bursting into pieces. "Joe looked back in the rear view mirror grinning, keeping silent the whole way. When he felt he was far enough, from anything, he turned off the bus. The battery kept the ancient wiring of the bus on and kept the cabin of the bus lit. Though they flickered every now and then. "What are you doing?! Turn it back on!" Joe got out of his seat and reached into a metal toolbox gently sifting around. "Forget Laughlin everyone... I'll give you all a vacation you'll never forget!" He pulled out a large tire iron. "Has he gone mad?!" Joe grinned as he walked down the aisle patting the blunt instrument in his hand, with everyone finally going silent. He stopped and turned towards the 80 pound man who had given him hell. "Mind explaining yourself Sonny?!" He cracked rudely. Joe shook his head, then lifted up the tire iron and began beating the man to death. Blood and pieces of brain went everywhere and landed over everyone. The people inside began screaming in horror and some tried to stop Joe, but he was much younger and stronger than these seniors. They could do nothing as he continuously beat them all with his instrument until every single passenger was a mangled and/or decapitated mess.

Covered in blood, Joe looked around him, dropped the tire iron and beat the metal frame of his bus in frustration. His plan had succeeded... Officially making him a mass murderer of over 20 people. He had to hide the evidence one way or another. He got out of the bus with the toolkit and opened the hood. He used the tools to cut a wire and the main gas line, putting them close together. Running the starter of the engine, the cut wire sparked the leaking gasoline igniting a fire. Joe quickly ran out of the bus and watched as the fire ran through the gas line and hit the gas tank creating a small explosion. The fire soon was large and hot enough that it began engulfing the entire bus. Joe looked on with the orange glow of his work burning away the old machine. Glass broke and melted under the heat after 30 minutes along with the headlights, melting the chromium lining within them. It slowly dripped out of the bell shaped headlights, making it appear that the bus was crying. Weeping. Soon, the smell of popcorn filled the air; the stench of burning bodies.

Having enough of it, Joe walked off. The bus was far enough from any town or civilization to be discovered easily. Joe had stolen any food items and water from his victims before he had burned the bus and was careful to use it as he hiked his way back to Highway 68. He slept under a cactus around midnight and when he woke up, used a portion of the water to wash as much of the blood as he could off his pants, then removed everything but his underwear and pants before he continued his. It took him a day and a half by foot, but eventually he found himself walking facing traffic on the northern shoulder of the highway. A semi-truck pulled over when Joe gave the hitch-hiking thumb signal. "Looks like you've been through hell," the driver stated. "Buddy, you don't know the half of it. Can you give me a lift?" The driver looked at him in the eye. "As long as its on the way to Bullhead City." "That'll work..." Joe stated. The driver opened the door and Joe got in. He closed the door behind him. "Mind telling me what happened to you pal?" The driver inquired. "I was driving a bus to Laughlin... My bus was hijacked... By demons and they shoved me onto the road, leaving me to die." The driver shook his head. "Yeah right, I've heard better stories from my grandma."

It was that same day the Coyote caught up to the bus' path. Looking around, he soon saw a horrifying site in front of him. He dropped the lower jaw of his muzzle in shock, seeing the same bus from earlier right in front of him, but completely destroyed by flames. Cautious, the coyote found a way inside the burned hulk. What he saw was far more horrifying than the wreckage of the bus itself. There were dead humans everywhere, mostly burned all torn up and mangled with blood showing everywhere. Whatever evil spirit had done this was gone and had succeeded with murder. The little canine could do nothing but lower its head and whimper, failing in his duty to protect the desert from evil. Knowing there was nothing he could do, the coyote got out of the bus and slowly walked away, every so often looking back on the dead bus with sorrowful eyes. Though unbeknownst to him and Joe... The tale of Bus 777 was far from over...


	2. Chapter 1

_Hello, 9-1-1._

 _There's a fire!_

 _Okay sir, where is it?_

 _I don't know, somewhere south of the Interstate... I'm somewhere between Casa Grande and Chandler..._

 _Are you hurt sir?_

 _No... I'm okay... The fire is a few miles away..._

 _Sir, are you sure its a fire?_

 _Yeah. I'm sure. It's big, orange and making the highway glow._

Firefighters were soon rushing up from Casa Grande to tend to the fire. "Alright, it appears to be somewhere off the highway on an old side road. We can't reach it by truck," the chief fireman stated, looking ahead at the blaze. It wasn't long before a Pinal County police helicopter took off from Casa Grande heading right to the area of the fire and hovered over it. "Damn, whatever this thing is, it's burning! The flames are at least five feet tall and cover a big area of this abandoned highway. This may require dumping quite a bit of water," the pilot stated to dispatch. "Okay, can you see anything else and is the fire in danger of spreading?" The pilot looked down. "Uh... Negative on the spreading and it looks like there's something next to and inside the fire." He grabbed binoculars and handed control to his co-pilot. "Shit..." The pilot then got back to dispatch. "I can confirm there are at least two persons down there! Neither appears to be moving." "Copy, we'll call in a firefighting helicopter from Pima County. In the meantime, land next to the fire and see if you can save anyone."

They landed the chopper and firefighters ran out of the vehicle over to the bodies. It became apparent there were three people involved. The firefighters grabbed all three and rushed them to the helicopter. The third one was on fire and the firefighters had to put the flames out. They shined a flashlight on the person, revealing his eyes were open and he was too burned and lost too much moisture in his body to still be alive. They carried him into the helicopter anyway and rushed the three victims to the nearest hospital. The previously flaming victim was pronounced as the helicopter was taking off. The second person had a weak pulse and passed away just as they were being rushed into the hospital from the helicopter. The third individual was barely alive and put on life support whilst in a coma. The firefighting helicopter arrived from Pima County twenty minutes after the bodies were rescued. Firefighters repelled down from the chopper and put out the flames with retardant. "Alright, fire's out. Let's secure the area for investigation."

Chuck Farner, the state's leading road safety supervisor and investigator, arrived to work at the Arizona Department of Transportation the next day. "Chuck!" His employee, Larry David, came running up to him. "What's the problem Larry?" Larry dropped the newspaper in front of him. "There was a fire last night. Some sort of car accident on an abandoned road near Casa Grande." Chuck gave him a look. "Abandoned? How does this pertain to us?" Larry sighed. "Our property. Some kids trespassed onto it for a joyride last night and were found burning." Chuck looked closer at the photo in the paper and read the story a bit. "Old 93 again?" Larry nodded and Chuck sighed, slapping the paper down and putting a hand over his face. "Not again..." Larry was worried. "What?" Chuck took a deep breath and sighed. "Bad things keep happening on that section. This is the third major incident in less than 3 months. It's imperative that we get someone good on the job to stop this once and for all."

Chuck picked up the phone and dialed a number. Someone picked up on the other end. "Hello?" "Hello? Is this Matthew Anderson?" A pawed hand with trimmed claws was holding the phone on the other end up to a brown and orange canine muzzle. "Yes. Who is this?" "Chuck Farner, Arizona Department of Transportation. I've picked up an ad over the internet saying you take unusual cases along America's old highways?" There was a slight grin on Matthew's muzzle. "Yes I do." Chuck gasped in relief. "Great. Thank God I'm not insane. We need you to come over here and help out. Something weird has been going on over at an abandoned stretch of highway we own south of I-10 and north of Casa Grande." "Got it. My buddy and I will be over there soon." Chuck was extremely elated. "And uh... Sorry if Arizona's a bit far from Alaska." "As long as you got the money, I'll come." Chuck sat down in his chair. "Great. Can we expect to see you in Phoenix soon?" "No. Meet me right where abandoned Highway 93 starts from State Route 187." Chuck was horrified. "Are you serious?!" Matthew growled into the phone. "We start this off my way or you can forget the deal." Chuck sighed. "Alright. I'll meet you there..."

Arizona Highway officials stood at the now bulldozed junction of Highways 187 and 93. It had been a week since the call. A red 1966 Beetle pulled over on the side of Highway 187 and the door opened. None of the highway officials were prepared for what they saw next. Matthew was dressed in his aviator clothes and was wearing a pair of shades, but underneath the clothing stood a six foot tall werewolf. "Okay, we asked for help, not some nut from a furry convention." Matthew growled at Chuck for saying those words and rolled up a sleeve to show a furred arm. Matthew then took out a knife and sliced it hard, and lifted up a patch of skin. Blood was dripping down onto the asphalt below. Chuck gulped hard, seeing muscle underneath the furred skin. "This is real," Matthew stated, now bandaging his arm with a roll of gauze paper, "I'm a fucking werewolf stuck like this so get used to it, okay?!" John got out of the car and facepalmed. "Seriously?! You cut your arm again?!" Matthew nodded. "He thought I was in a costume. Well damn it, this ain't one!" He adjusted his sunglasses at a now frozen in fear, showing one of the few human features he had left, his big brown eyes. "I'm sorry... I didn't know..." Matthew stood back. "Don't do it again and everything's forgiven." He then took out a toothpick and held it in his large canine mouth. John just sighed. "Oh brother..."

"So you say this is occurring on Old 93?" Matthew asked. Chuck nodded. "I don't know what highway it was, but yes, whatever that abandoned stretch there." Matthew shook his head. "You guys own the damn road and I'd expect you'd at least now a thing or two about it. You see, since 2020, US 93 doesn't even come to Arizona anymore and ends just north of Las Vegas. While the U.S. Highway never went further south than Wickenburg, the number was completed to the Mexican border prior to 1985 by Arizona State Route 93. Part of that original road was abandoned in 1971 in favor of Interstate 10 between what was now State Routes 587 and 187." Matthew removed the toothpick placing it between his index and middle finger on his right hand and pointed at the abandoned road. "I've known about that road for 14 years. Never got the chance to visit it until now, but I can tell you it gives me the creeps." He put the toothpick back in his mouth and folded his arms. "All the original pre-1975 uniform traffic signs, white dashed lines and mileposts are still there, save for the route shields. It's as if the road is just sitting there frozen in time. And as for why you need my help, I'm guessing something along similar lines to that crappy film 'Route 666' are happening here. You guys must've closed this road for more than just the Interstate bypass back in 1971."

Chuck was absolutely astonished. "You know that much about this road?!" Matthew nodded. "I did quite a bit of research on it. Let's just say between 2015 and 2017, I lived in Tucson. I like to study things located within the places I live." John gave Matthew a look. "So that's why I could never find you during that time! You split town and the state!" Matthew nodded. "Sorry John. Even still, I don't feel comfortable enough to tell anyone anything else besides that for the moment being." He looked at the road some more, just staring at it. "Yeah... Not another word about it for a while..." Chuck cleared his throat and Matthew jumped back around to face him. "Anyways, we've been getting reports of a Ghost Bus on this stretch of road-" A black and white image of an old blue bus appeared in Matthew's head, travelling down the road, engine flaming. "-and dead bodies lying around the road, charred, with traces of gasoline found in the remains-" The image changed to a blue Ford van on fire at an abandoned Whiting Brothers gas station on a stretch of road with a white dashed line. "-even guys we send out and guys Pinal County sends out to investigate never return alive, save for one guy last week." Matthew removed his sunglasses and had a look of horror on his lupine face.

"Mr. Anderson? You okay?" Matthew snapped out of it. "Tell me more about this bus Chuck." Chuck nodded. "Witness reports say its a blue bus with the number '777' on it." Matthew's mind went back to the image of the flaming blue bus. It's bright headlights had molten chromium weeping from them as its flaming engine growled demonically. _Matthew, what the hell is going on?!_ A bright white 777 stood above the windshield on the bus' roof. "The ghost bus..." Chuck was confused. "What?" Matthew shook his head and snapped out of it. "The Ghost Bus of Highway 93. I've read about it. It was an old run down 1930's bus operated by a low class bus charter company out of Phoenix and was driven by a man named Joe Kramer. He was transporting 20 passengers from Sun City, Arizona to Laughlin, Nevada. Apparently, the bus began breaking down between Wickenburg and Wikieup, then quit all together at Union Pass on Highway 68. The passengers turned into demons, threw Joe off the bus and hijacked it."

Matthew folded his arms and looked ahead at the road. "After it sped down the hill and around the corner, the bus was never seen again... Or so Joe claimed. Although state officials from Nevada and Arizona apprehended Joe and looked for the bus, they never found it. From 1994 on, the ghost of it has terrorized anyone driving down what was once US 93, now Interstate 11, usually between Wikieup and Wickenburg. This abandoned road was part of an extended 93 in state route form only, but I believe it when people say the Ghost Bus was here..." Chuck was interested. "And why would you choose to believe that?" Matthew looked back at him. "First off I'm a werewolf, so who's to say ghosts aren't real too? Second... Let's just say I have a good feeling about that..." John looked up at Matthew as well. He knew there was something he wasn't telling them.

That night, they were staying at the Hotel Congress in downtown Tucson. Back in the 1930's, the infamous John Dillinger had stayed there and escaped J. Edgar Hoover's FBI successfully too. There were two beds. John took one, while Matthew took the other. "Ugh... It's kinda warm in here..." John laughed at Matthew's complaint. "Well no shit Sherlock, you're wearing a large fur coat." The werewolf cracked a grin. "Heh, yeah." Matthew looked up at the ceiling, ears flattened. "What I wouldn't give to be human again..." John looked at him. "That's just life I guess... Though I still think you're cool," John stated. Matthew grinned slightly. "Thanks John." Matthew sat up slightly and scratched his head with his right leg. "Aaaaaah... Much better." John snickered and tried to hold it in. "Hey Fido, you're doing it again." Matthew suddenly snapped out of it and noticed a huge paw next to his face. "GAH!" He put it down immediately. "Ugh... Not only do I look weird, I'm a fucking dog too..." John got up to use the bathroom and rubbed Matthew's head. "And a big softy too."

Matthew got in the shower a little later. He watched as loose fur washed off his body revealing his summer coat. It was much thinner and Matthew liked that better. After a while, he took out some shampoo and washed his hair. When he was done, he washed all off his fur with dog shampoo. It's all he could use anyway. Ten to twelve minutes later, he shut off the water. He kept the curtain closed, got down on all fours and shook his body of the excess water like any old dog would. He stepped out and started drying himself off with a towel. Next, he took out a toothbrush and some tooth paste, then looked at all the teeth that were arranged in his canine muzzle. "Ugh... I hate this part..." He prepared the toothbrush and held it up to his mouth to start brushing.

When he had finished, he looked at his hands. His claws had grown back to full size. He grunted and took out a scissor and cut all of them down to size, one by one, throwing them in the trash when he was done. He put on a pair of underwear. When he did, his tail burst straight through the fabric. "Ugh..." He looked down at it. "What I wouldn't give just to be normal again..." He gently stepped out of the bathroom. John was asleep in his own bed. Matthew put the covers over him and rested his head on the pillow sighing. He missed the way he used to be. Ever since the war, he was stuck either a werewolf or a full wolf and had lost both his ship and killer plane ones forever. He knew how to change between the two forms, but just wanted to be human again. For a city, Tucson was awfully quiet and he liked that. Maybe a good nights sleep would help him... Maybe it would this time...

In his dream, Matthew was still human. He was overlooking the ship canal from the Aurora Bridge, spotting the other old bridges in Seattle which in reality had all been destroyed in the war. He was bent over the railing looking down at the water. "I know it's rough, but you have to stop doing this to yourself..." Matthew looked over and saw his father smiling at him. "Dad?" Ken Anderson walked over to his son and stood next to him overlooking the ship canal with him. "Be thankful for what you have Buddy." Matthew looked over. "I just want things the way they were." Ken looked back at his son. "Some things could be again. Why did you stop talking to me? Your mother and sister really miss you." Matthew sighed. "I really can't tell you..." Ken took his finger and touched Matthew's chest with it. The other bridges across the canal faded away, revealing what Seattle now looked like in postwar times. Matthew felt himself change into a werewolf. He whimpered and shied away.

His father just looked at him. "This is why? Aww buddy, there's nothing to be afraid of." He hugged the 6 1/2 foot tall werewolf in front of him gently and rubbed his head. "I don't care what you look like or who you are, my buddy is my special pal..." Matthew started crying. "I know you don't like wolves... And I thought you wouldn't like me either..." Ken smiled and rubbed Matthew's chin gently. "Of course I still like you! It's still you under all of that hair, isn't it?" Matthew cried and hugged him. "Thanks Dad..." He woke up from the dream and sat up in bed. "It was just a dream..." He started crying. "I love them but... They can't see me like this... Mom, Dad or Victoria will never love me again..." He just lay back down and while crying was whimpering. He couldn't help it. It's what his large canine body did. John cracked open an eye and saw him distressed. He sighed to himself. _He's gotta stop beating himself up..._ He thought. "I'm gonna stay up for a bit and read... Hopefully Chuck or someone else will call and we begin investigating soon." John nodded and shook his head. Ever since Matthew's transformation and the war, he wasn't the same. Not only that, but there was something about the subject of this investigation that Matthew had something to do with. But what was it?


End file.
